The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1) (19 page)

22

“Where to, guv?” asked Owen, affecting what he considered to be a passable impression of a London taxi driver.

“Onto the ro
of, if you wouldn’t mind,” Ken requested, “next to the central chimney stack.”

Owen slowed down his ascent and started to follow a wide
circle down towards the house. From this height he could see that the hill had a perfect rectangular shaped (albeit with smooth edges), leading him to believe that it was likely man-made.

They were low enough now for Owen to make out the roof
, and he could see the chimney stack that Ken was referring to. The roof itself was largely flat, which was a relief to Owen who was concerned as to how he could safely land on a sloping surface without damaging himself or his cargo.

The grounds around the house were lit brightly but Owen couldn’t see anyone other than
a small selection of the men in their now familiar dark uniforms, holding rifles and moving around like angry ants. Decelerating further, Owen brought himself and Ken to within a metre or so of the roof. Rather than attempting a landing whilst moving (something that had been far from successful on previous attempts) he came to a stop and hung in mid-air by his hand, and instructed Ken to drop down. After doing so, Owen followed and landed deftly beside Ken, next to the chimney which stood about two metres high above the roof.

“Give us a leg up,”
requested Ken, pointing at the top of the chimney, on which stood four pots. Owen obliged, cupping his hands together and allowing Ken to place one foot in his palms. Ken stood and grabbed the top of the brickwork and pulled himself up, Owen helping him as much as he could. Now that he was no longer airborne his strength was back to normal, his arm muscles straining under Ken’s weight whereas before they landed he carried him with ease.

Ken reached the to
p and stood by the chimney pots, peering down one of them. “Time to flush out the rats,” he announced, and placed his hands over two of the openings.

Owen heard the gushing sound of water go shooting down the chimneys, followed b
y cries from within the house. “Go and watch the front door, tell me when folks start to leave,” instructed Ken.

Owen walked slowly t
o the roof’s edge and peered over. There was no immediate exodus, but Owen saw that the light being emitted from the windows below was flickering. About a minute later he heard a door open and half a dozen people run out, some covered in a black substance, the others in varying degrees of saturation. He ran back to Ken.

“They’re leaving,” Owen
confirmed.

“Excellent,” said Ken,
continuing with the downpour. “Now keep an eye out for Fafnir and then go and join him; he’ll tell you where the others are.”

Owen nodded and ran towards
the roof’s edge, scanning the treeline for Fafnir. A few heartbeats later a large plume of flames and a handful of guards fleeing its source indicated where Fafnir was positioned. It was soon followed by multiple explosions as several of the parked cars burst into flame.

Owen leapt off th
e building and reaching out he headed towards where the flames had originated, aiming for a gap in the trees just behind it. Employing the same method of descent as he had just used on the roof, Owen stopped in mid-air and dropped to the ground vertically. He landed on his feet directly behind Fafnir, who turned without alarm and greeted him with a smile.

“Keep behind me, Owen my boy,” Fafnir said and started to walk forward
, “let’s rock n’ roll!” Owen noticed that he was wearing a set of headphones, music bleeding out of them.

“Babe, I’m on fire!” Fafnir shou
ted out in a sing-song voice as from his hands burst volley after volley of flames, each aimed at the guards who were heading towards them. One carried a plastic shield which he cowered behind briefly, as Fafnir aimed a concentrated blast at him. He quickly abandoned it though as it began to melt, and chose to flee and seek shelter behind the one car that wasn’t on fire instead.

Fafnir tutted under his b
reath. “Missed one,” he said, and to compensate sent a huge fireball at the car, which exploded on the spot. The guard staggered back and beat a hasty retreat towards the manor house.

Fafnir raised his arms above his head in victory,
then pulled out a cassette player from his pocket and turned off the music. “I’m a firm believer that listening to music whilst you work increases productivity,” Fafnir advised Owen, who simply nodded in awe.

They emerged from the treeline and were greeted by a truck driving from the l
eft. Several more guards emerged from the back and lined up along its side, each pointing a rifle at Fafnir and Owen.

“Don’t move!” shouted one of the men.

“I surrender!” said Fafnir dramatically and raised his hands in the air.

The man who had shouted the orders took two s
low steps towards them. Before he could advance further he was blown off his feet sideways, back in the direction the truck had come from. The remaining men turned and aimed their weapons towards the source of the freak blast of wind, but they too were propelled backwards. They all landed on the ground about ten metres behind the truck, where they lay without moving.

Mrs Argyle came
into view from behind the front of the vehicle, patting her hands together. The truck’s driver’s door opened and another guard leapt out, this time with his arms in the air. Clive sidled out after him, his fingers pointing into the man’s back, forming the barrel of the gun his hand was imitating. He then instructed for the man to kneel down and used the guard’s own handcuffs to clamp his wrists together.

Facing the guard Clive mimicked the shape of a gun once more with his right hand, and blew away some imaginary smok
e from the tip of his pointed index finger. The man looked both angry and ashamed, to which Clive just shrugged before leading him over to the pile of unconscious guards.

“Won’t they wake up and
run away?” asked Owen.

“
Myrtle will make sure they stay put,” Mrs Argyle explained.

Owen looked over and saw that
Myrtle had emerged from the shadows amongst the trees and had joined Clive by the men. As if to prove what she was capable of, as one of the men that Mrs Argyle had made airborne tried to dash away, an annoyed grunt from the cow followed by an invisible force sent him hurtling through the air once more. He landed a few metres from the pile of his colleagues, looking unlikely to attempt the same escape again.

Mrs Argyle gave a nod of approval and l
ooked towards the manor house. More people could be seen fleeing from the main entrance, most of who appeared to be wearing normal clothes and not the black jackets and trousers that the guards were clad in.

After a few moments the flow of people fleeing
from Ken’s handiwork subsided. “Clive?” Mrs Argyle requested, looking at him expectantly.

“Aye, aye, C
aptain,” Clive said, walking towards the house, looking back over his shoulder. “Toodles,” he said, giving a little wave, and vanished.

Just as Clive disappeared,
Ellie emerged from the trees. “Oh my!” she exclaimed as she glanced at the pile of men being guarded by Myrtle. Katie followed closely behind her.

“What now?” Katie asked,
walking up to Owen and giving his hand a squeeze.

“We wait,” said Mrs Argyle.  “Clive will do a quick
reccy and let us know if there are any guards between here and the building. If the coast’s clear, he’s going to give the tree to the left of the front door a shake.”

Owen looked over at the house and saw that the
main entrance was flanked by two neatly trimmed trees in small pots. A few minutes passed, during which they all gazed intently at the tree, waiting for it to quiver. They were staring so fixedly that they started in unison at the reappearance of Clive before them

Smiling at the effect he had
just had upon them all, he explained that there were about twenty guards stationed just inside the house, and another thirty in a building just to the right. “The rooms at the front of the house are mainly offices,” Clive continued, “so my guess is Christopher is being kept towards the rear.”

“The back
of the house joins into the hill,” Owen said. “At least it looks that way from the sky.”

“What else did you see
from up there?” Mrs Argyle asked.

“I wasn’t really paying attention to be honest,” Owen admitted, “I was focused on getting Ken on the roof.”

“I suppose we ought to reclaim my brother before we proceed,” Mrs Argyle suggested, looking towards the top of the house. From their distance they couldn’t identify either Ken or the chimneys, just a black shroud above the topmost windows. “If you wouldn’t mind doing the honours Owen, and whilst you’re up there have a proper look at the house and if there’s any way we can all get in unnoticed. It’s doubtful that all of the guards will be inside so look for any activity by the out-buildings, like the one Clive was describing. Ordinarily I’d fly up myself, but I’m afraid my airborne passenger service had to be withdrawn some years ago.”

“Okay,”
agreed Owen, feeling gratified that he was able to perform a task that the others could not. He walked back towards the trees for a run up, Katie whispering “be careful” into his ear and giving his arm a squeeze as he passed by her.

Owen smiled and walked away for a few paces
before turning and sprinting towards them. He leapt forward and reaching out pulled himself skywards, just missing the top of their heads by a hair’s width (for dramatic effect). He chose a route around the edge of the trees and continued up, until he was at what he considered to be a safe height. He then circled around and looked down.

He could see the building that Clive had spoken of and a few people
moving around in front of it. The other side of the house was in darkness though, but he thought he could make out shapes amongst the blackness that may have been buildings. He wished that the moon would come back out from its current cloudy hiding place to assist with his reconnaissance mission.

Risking a closer look he headed down slightly so that he was
at a height from the ground about twice that of the roof of the house. He could see a shape moving around on the roof and recognised it as being Ken, who was waving his arms and shouting something. Owen moved down a bit closer and could hear a feint “
look out
”.

From his left he saw a flash of light,
like a small fire, followed by the sound of a small explosion. Something was hurtling towards him, followed by a trail of smoke. With a sense of horror, Owen realised that a rocket of some description had been fired at him.

He reached out and tried to pull himself away but he was not
quite fast enough, the speed of the rocket outclassing his own abilities. Just as it was about to hit him though, a jet of water slowed it down and changed its course slightly, stopping it from making a direct hit on Owen but causing it to explode.

The force fro
m the blast shook every fibre in Owen’s body, his mind and consciousness shattering like glass, before being replaced by shadow, the roar of the rocket immediately being replaced with a high pitched whistle.

He fell towards the ground, landing on one of the buildings that he had seen earlier
, and crashed through its roof, just as blackness enveloped his mind completely.

23

“Owen?” his father called out to him, seemingly from afar. Owen was too tired to wake up. He didn’t care what day it was; be it a school day or a weekend, Owen wasn’t to be enticed from his bed. His head was throbbing and his eyes were heavy. Every limb in his body ached. He’d never had a hangover before, but this must be what one felt like.

He was lying on his back on a mattress that fel
t much firmer than his own bed. He must have fallen asleep in the spare room.

“Owen! Wake up!”

What was it with people lately, trying to wake him up when he so desperately needed sleep? Was it his imagination, or had his father blown a whistle in his ear earlier as well? Whatever could be so important for him to deserve this kind of treatment?

He
tried to roll onto his left side, away from his father’s voice. The aching was replaced by jolts of sharp pains throughout his body that made him cry out in agony. A hand grasped his, accompanied by soothing noises.

Owen opened his eyes slightly and realised that he wasn’t in the spare room, or indeed
anywhere that resembled the inside of his house. He gazed upwards and saw that the ceiling was painted white, with strips of lights dotted about, a wide metal cable trunk running along its entire length.

Looking around the room he saw that the brick walls were
also painted white with no other features other than a metal door in the corner that didn’t seem to have a handle. To his right was where his father was seated, on a small metal stool. This and the bed Owen was laying were the only furniture in the room.

A flood of memories flickered to life in Owen’s mind; the last twenty four hours suddenly vivid and tangible. Owen emitted a sigh of relief that his father was alive and seemingly well. He
was dressed in the same white shirt and grey trousers that he had been wearing when they had last been in each other’s company the day before.

“Hi D
ad,” Owen managed.

“Hi,” Christopher Johnson responded softly, his eyes wet with tears.

Owen stared at him for a few moments, his father’s hand gripping his tightly. Memories of the past day’s events were spinning wildly around his mind, each one overlapping one another to make a distorted mess. Owen closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on separating them. Slowly they became still and with a jolt he remembered why he was here. “I’ve come to rescue you!”

“So I see,” Christopher replied nodding
seriously, but with a glint in his eye. “How’s it going so far?”

Owen chuckled,
wincing at the pain this caused in his ribs. “Not exactly according to plan.”

“Apparently not,” Christopher agreed.  “You being here is the last thing I wanted, Owen.”

“I know,” Owen sighed, “Mrs Argyle didn’t want me to come but I wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Celia is here too?” Chr
istopher replied in a whisper. If anything he looked more concerned. “Is she alone?”

“No,” replied Owen, adopting the same hushed tone of his father, “there are others.”

Christopher shook his head. “This is bad.”

“Th
ey didn’t want to abandon you, Dad. Why shouldn’t they try and get you out?”

Leaning closer, Christop
her’s voice was barely audible. “They’re using me as bait.”

“I know, D
ad. To get me here.”

Christopher shook his head.
“Not just you, son. They want all of them; anyone with abilities to help them achieve their goal.”

“What goal?”

“I don’t know for sure. They tried to get me to cooperate but I refused.”

“What did they do to you?” Owen asked
, worried as to what lengths they would go to so as to achieve their ambitions.

“Oh don’t worry, nothing too sinist
er,” his father reassured him. He certainly didn’t seem to have any external signs of any physical duress. “Most of their bargaining was based around seeing you alive again. But they were being so unspecific about your whereabouts; I had hoped that Celia had whisked you away somewhere safe. If only she had.”

“Look, we’re here now so you can’t c
hange that,” Owen reminded him, and looked around the sparse room again. “So you have no idea what it is they’re doing here?”

“Like I said, not for certain.
But from what I learned before I was captured, they seem hell bent in opening some kind of permanent portal to a mirror world, but for what purpose I do not know.”

“
Could it be something that they want from there?”

“Maybe.
A mineral we don’t have on our world perhaps, or some other resource. They’ve tried to transfer heat between worlds in the past, as a constant source of power.”

“Is that what they were doing at the power plant?”

Christopher frowned and looked away from Owen briefly. “I believe so,” he said, making eye contact again, “but that was all beyond my security clearance.  But they are definitely up to something here. They’ve got warehouses big enough to swallow several aircraft, but they stand empty. I only saw them briefly as I was brought in, so they may have started filling them by now, although I shudder to think what with.”

Owen lay quiet for a mome
nt, studying his father’s face. It looked as if years had took their toll on it compared to how it seemed yesterday (or was it the day before by now?) when Owen last saw him. “Dad,” he said finally, “can I ask you something.”

Christopher hesitated,
and then nodded slowly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?
About me I mean?”

“What about you?” he responded slowly and carefully.

“About my abilities, of course,” Owen replied, wondering what else his father might have thought he meant.

“Oh,” Christopher replied, seeming relieved. “Well, your mother a
nd I agreed it was best to shelter you from that until you started to exhibit signs that they were emerging. From what I have heard of the guards talking, you’re a flyer?”

Owen shook his head.
“Not really,” he explained. “Mrs Argyle can fly. I just reach out and grab hold of rocks and stuff that apparently are in another world, and then swing along through the air. Like a monkey I guess.”

Chri
stopher again looked concerned. “You can hold onto objects in other worlds?”

“Yes,” Owen said slowly, worried
by his father’s expression and tone that suggested this was a bad thing.

To compound this
theory, Christopher leant back on his stool and rubbed his hands down his face. “We need to get you out of here.”

“I know that.
That’s why we’re here.”

“No,
we need to get
you
out of here. You are exactly what they need. I’ve heard them talking: the last piece of their puzzle, whatever diabolical thing they have up their sleeve, is to obtain someone who can actually make physical contact with other worlds.”

“But I can only hold onto things,” Owen explained, “it’s n
ot like I can bring stuff back. And I always stay in this world, not like Clive.”

Christ
opher stood up and paced about. “Clive’s here too?” He chewed his finger nails, and then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.  You are physically making contact with other worlds, which is what they need. As far as I know Clive has never been able to touch or hold anything in the place that he travels through. His existence there is in a state of flux with our own world.

“You on the other hand
… If you can grasp onto things, have a physical presence there… I don’t know why, but that is really important to them. They want someone who can bring something back, and you would fit the bill perfectly.”

“But I can’t bring anything back,” Owen explained.

“Have you tried?” Christopher asked.

“Well, no,” Owen
admitted.

“Try,” Christopher
said, leaning towards his son. “Reach out, and see if you can bring something back. Do it slowly and subtly though. I can’t see any cameras but I’d be surprised if there weren’t any hidden away somewhere.”

Owen put his left hand under the blanket that was covering him
, keeping his hand to the side of his leg. He opened his hand and experienced the familiar tingling sensation. Closing his fingers they made contact with a rough feeling surface. Owen gripped and pulled. At first it wouldn’t budge, so Owen pulled again. It came away in his hand so Owen brought it out from beneath the covers, concentrating on bringing his hand back to his own world.

He withdrew his hand from the blanket so that his father could see, his
closed palm facing downwards. He slowly turned his hand around and opened his fingers.

Resting
in the palm of his hand was a small piece of shiny black rock, the size of a golf ball but elongated. Christopher stared at it silently, a resigned look of dismay on his face.

The silence was broken
by a metal clang and the sound of the door sliding open. Owen slipped his hand and the rock back beneath the surface of the covers, tucking the rock into his pocket. Two men entered the room. The first man was wearing a lab coat and looked to be in his mid-thirties. He had a mess of black hair and was frantically making notes on a clipboard.

The second man was much older and was wearing a black suit
, with a matching black tie on a white shirt. He was very tall and his long thin head was completely bald, an insincere smile on his face. His right hand was in his jacket pocket, fiddling with something.

“Thank you, Mr Johnson,”
he said, “we couldn’t have arranged a better demonstration of your son’s abilities ourselves.”

“Leave my son alone,” Christopher said angrily, darting up and blocking the way between the men and Owen.

“Now, now,” the man said calmly, “there’s no need to get upset. We have no intention of harming the boy; we just need his help with a couple of matters.”

“
No intention to harm
?” Christopher repeated incredulously. “From what I overheard you fired a damn rocket at him!”

The man smiled and shook his head, holdi
ng his hands up apologetically. “That was unfortunate, I grant you. An error by one of our more trigger-happy employees, who has been dealt with accordingly I assure you. Although in fairness to him, he had been subjected to a trial by fire, no doubt courtesy of our old friend Mr Wyllt.”

“Fafnir?”
Christopher questioned, looking at Owen. “He’s here too?” Owen nodded, and it seemed to him that his father relaxed slightly at this news.

“Oh there’s quite a reunion of sorts underway
in our grounds,” the man said. “They’re becoming somewhat of a nuisance, but they’ll be subdued in time. With your help of course, young Owen.”

“I’m not helping you,” Owen spat at him.

“Oh, but you will. I am not asking for much, just the briefest of errands. Think of yourself as a courier; bringing back a small item that we desire.”

“
And why would I do that?” Owen said.

There was a voice outside and the man with the clipboard
responded by stepping out of the room, saying that he would be back in a moment. The bald man didn’t seem to take any notice.

“Why
would you do it? Why to save your father’s life of course,” the man said. He pulled out a small silver pistol and fired it at Christopher. There wasn’t a loud bang, as one would expect with a bullet, just a small escape of air.

Christopher turned slightl
y and Owen saw that there was a thin black object resembling an insect’s leg protruding from his right arm.

Christopher looked at the dart,
and pulled it out, leaving a small patch of red blood on his white shirt, and stared at its barbed tip.

“Oh my,” he said,
before collapsing to the floor, the dart rolling away from his fallen body.